


there are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon

by Anonymous



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Gen, Night Watch, The People's Revolution of the Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told in Glorious May Twenty-Fifths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Discworld is hard to write. For me it is, anyway. For other fandoms, it's not too hard to tell if your work is crap, but for Discworld, I can never be sure. So I'm posting this under anonymous, and if people like it maybe I'll link it back to my normal account. Enjoy! And Happy May Twenty-Fifth!

1.

He passes the year in a daze. Not in the dizzy, drunk stupor that would become familiar to him in time, but as if he had never even blinked awake that foggy morning to find the warm scent of lilac embedding itself into his memory and the cold bodies of his commanding officer and six other good men on the ground.

For all he knows, he could still be dreaming.

Keel had knocked him out.

Why? To keep him safe probably. It seemed like everything that man did over the course of the few days he'd known him was to keep Sam safe for some unknown reason.

They died. So many of them. Nancyball, Dickens, Snouty, Reg Shoe (technically), Coates, Wiglet, and Keel.

Why? Carcer had gone after them. Under Snapcase's orders, too. And to think they'd wanted Snapcase, fought for him. (By "they," of course, he means everyone but Keel, and now all of those little comments Keel had made snap into place.)

But… why? He understands why… but not _why_?

He'd woken up, and seven good men were dead. It had been a bloody fight, by the looks of it. But valiant, too. And he'd been unconscious. And they had died without anybody to hold their hands or close their eyes.

And he was alive. Why? And what now?

 

4.

He gets promoted to Corporal, though not out of any exceptional deeds on his part, but rather, there isn't much stock to choose from. The Watch has been shrinking, slowly but surely. Recruitment is at an all time low. Boys coming of age are more attracted to the higher wages and fancier uniforms of the palace guard.

It's not surprising. All the Watch can do these days are roam the streets, shouting "All's well," round up the stumbling drunks in the early mornings, and on rare occasions, investigate the odd theft here and there. And when they try saying anything different or looking into the several murders or disappearances that are reported each day, they get a visit from a palace guard (who, in another universe, another time, could have been a Lance-Constable of the Night Watch) crossing his arms with an expression of steel, saying "Well, what's not well, pray? Tell us, and we will take care of it."

Snapcase is… good enough. That's what people say anyway. He's better than Winder was, and that was the whole point, wasn't it? There's no more curfew, no more torture, no more paranoia-driven chaos.

But Sam's starting to think that maybe nothing's changed at all. Maybe Snapcase is just better at hiding it. He no longer hears rumors of dark, bloody rooms under watch houses, but then again, some of the prisoners he turns over, he never sees again. And Ankh-Morpork is not that big of a city.

He doesn't talk about it. Because every time he tries to, he's met with responses like, "He's better than Winder," or "But he talks to us! He kisses babies!."

And Sam thinks: Well, damn.

So. It's been four years, and he's greeted with the familiar sight of some of the palace guard coming for a troublemaker who'd been in the cells for a couple days.

People don't sign for prisoners anymore.

But it's been four years exactly, and the scent of lilac is blooming in his nostrils, and all he can think about is how Keel would most certainly not be satisfied "good enough," so he draws himself up, crosses his arms, and says, "You gotta sign for the prisoner."

The palace guards are old enough, he thinks. They would have been there, too. They should remember.

They just tilt their heads back and laugh.

 

10.

The city is buzzing.

Normally, Ankh-Morpork emits a sort of warm hum. But now, it has been poked and prodded one time too many by Snapcase, a man who, considering his predecessor, should have known better.

The people of the city have finally realized what Sam had started suspecting long ago: that letting up on taxes a little isn't very helpful if they started off incredibly high to begin with, and talking to the common citizens makes no difference if no one's _listening_. And all the while, people have been going missing, crimes have been going unsolved.

The rebels are starting up again. Today, while patrolling Sator Square at sunset, he tries to buy a meat pie from Dibbler, but the man only shakes his head solemnly, the sprig of lilac pinned to his hat bobbing side-to-side as he does so, and instead hands Sam a sausage-inna-bun before briskly walking away. Tucked neatly between the sausage and the bun and stained with grease, is a little slip of paper reading, "Easy Street, 11 p.m. Password: Swordfish."

It's amazing how short people's memories are. Here they are, ten years later, history repeating itself, and no one even notices. No one remembers. No one asks why.

He remembers. He can't not. The memories have been seared into his brain for the past ten years. He can't look at things the same anymore. To tell the truth, he's not sure which side he's on. He's not sure he's on one at all.

He could use a drink.

 

11-24.

He spends a lot of time in the gutter. Somewhere along the way, a revolution happens. He takes no part in it. He watches it happen through the tavern windows.

A dirty assassin named Vetinari takes charge and legalizes theft and seamstressing. In his fleeting moments of sobriety, Vimes hates the man. In his overwhelming periods of drunkardness, he joyfully toasts the man and also the death of true justice.

The Night Watch shrinks and shrinks and shrinks, and, at the risk of sounding trite, Vimes feels something in his chest shrink along with it. Someone, can't remember who, promotes him to Captain. Probably because he was the only one who didn't say "no" fast enough.

Snouty's widow starts having financial troubles. So does Dickens' daughter. So Vimes starts a Watch Widows and Orphans Fund, and he tries to make a meeting with the Patrician about it, but no one gets back to him, and no one donates, 'cept him.

 

25.

The loss of Treacle Mine Road is still sharp in his heart when Carrot walks into the new Watch house, squints his eyes, scratches his head, and asks, "Sergeant Colon, Corporal Nobbs? Captain Vimes? Why are you all wearing lilac today?"

He feels his hands clench, sees Nobby and Colon's faces automatically form scowls before they all realize: this is _Carrot_.

"If you don't mind me asking," Carrot adds innocently. "I saw Mr. Dibbler wearing one today, as well."

He'd never wanted them to become heroes; he didn't want the story to be stolen, stripped of all meaning, twisted, and glorified. He didn't want statues, holidays, songs singing their praises to the skies. Because it wouldn't be real. Good men deserved more than that.

But one day, he'd be dead, Nobby and Colon'd be dead, the moss would grow over the graves in Small Gods, and nobody would remember the lilac anymore. Which is what he'd wanted, right? Not exactly.

Vimes's face softens. "You know a lot about this city. Fancy yourself a bit of a historian, don't you, Carrot?"

"I've read every volume of DuMarc's A History of Ankh-Morpork," Carrot says, pride in his smile.

Reaching up, Vimes puts an arm around Carrot's shoulders and steers him toward the door. He'd love to show him where it all happened, point to the training yard and say, "That's where he taught us how to fight, the real way," and point to the stoop out in front and say, "And that's where he held off the mob with nothing but an open door and a cup of hot cocoa."

But it's all ashes now. Small Gods would have to suffice.

"Well, this story, you're not going to find it in any books. No plays, no statues, no songs."

"Why not?" Carrot asks, as they walk down the street to the cemetery.

"Because I made sure of it," Vimes says to Carrot's confused face. "You'll understand."

So he'd pass the story on. To the right person, in the right way. The story would endure, in its own little corner, and maybe, someday, when it was needed, when the time was right…

 

28.

There's no lilac in the Klatchian desert. No other flowers, neither. He can't even improvise. Nevertheless, he thinks he did indeed honor the men's memory this year. After all, he'd chased Angua and a murderer across the ocean. He hadn't even thought about it. He'd just done the job that was in front of him. And he'd stopped a war at that. He never much liked wars.

 

30.

 _Fair trial, fair trial_ , Vimes thinks repeatedly as he climbs up the Unseen University roof. He knows what Carcer's going to pull. The little bugger does the same thing every time. _Keep the Beast on its chain, and Carcer gets a fair trial._ He remembers when Keel had taught him about that in a bloody cellar of a burning building.

However, Keel had taught him other things as well. _Of course, if the bastard wants to take a swing at me, there won't be enough body to bury._

 

0.

He can feel himself slipping, like his sanity is a big pile of plates and silverware sitting atop a table, and there's a little yapping dog pulling at the checkered tablecloth. Maybe Carcer is the dog. Or it's Young Sam. More likely, it's everyone and everything, mixing together in one whole mess of This Again?

Oh, yes, he'd enjoyed it at the beginning. Going on patrol had been like a breath of fresh air. People were no longer rushing out of his way as he walked, muttering things like, "Apologies, Your Grace!" and officers were no longer running after him, trying to make him attend meetings and read paperwork. His new pair of secondhand boots had molded to his feet like wet clay.

And then he'd taken his head out of his ass long enough to remember exactly where this was all going. To remember that every year, he'd visited graves with these watchmen's names carved onto them. Yet, he was supposed to carry on as normal, and, despite what Lu-Tze had condescended, it wasn't easy.

So, to protect himself from turning into a big, gibbering pile of mush from having to watch these men die all over again, somewhere along the course of the day, he decides to view this experience as some sort of blessing. No, "blessing" wasn't the right word. Neither was "gift." You couldn't call reexperiencing one of the worst days of your life a gift. Privilege, more like.

To witness such stalwart bravery and absolute ferocity, such idealism and unfettered loyalty, the likes of which are so rarely seen in everyday life. To see such things once more was truly a privilege. And, while he wasn't about to go thanking that devious little monk, he wasn't about to throttle him either.

 

31.

They have a little get-together in the early morning before everyone has to go to work and while Young Sam is still awake. Willikins serves breakfast: the saltiest and greasiest bacon and eggs for everyone else and toast with strawberry jam for Vimes.

Unfortunately, by now, Vimes is used to his healthy meals, and it doesn't manage to ruin his mood. The truth is, it's a nice party. It's an odd group of people, and it's been an odd life for him, but finally, it's all come together. It all works. He smiles as he observes the room.

There's Angua chatting with Willikins about fighting techniques. There's Detritus and Cheery whispering in the corner as they are wont to do, though Detritus's whisper is more like a very loud rumbling sound. There's all of Sybil's noblewomen friends sitting next to Nobby, twittering over him, perhaps believing him to be cute? Vimes decides not to concern himself with such questions. Even Vetinari had showed up. Currently, he's talking, or rather, trying to talk, with a sweating Fred Colon, who is having a hard time participating in a conversation while simultaneously trying not to release the contents of his bowels in fear.

Sybil brings out the cake from the kitchen, candles lit, and everybody starts singing, especially Carrot, who belts out the song with the same gravitas he would have if he were singing the national anthem at a coronation. And Vimes feels content. It's this warm, soft feeling that things are exactly as they should be. It's a bright spring day, and Young Sam is alive and healthy, and he's burbling and wearing the most adorable little party hat, and look at that, his little mini cake is a delicate shade of lavender, and on top of it, it's even got this little sprig of li—

Damn! Damn! Damn! _Damn!_ Every damn year he forgot. And this year, it feels even worse because with the memories returns the guilt, extra hard. Those men had died, well before their time, and here he is, graying, in his fifties, with a heart problem and creaky knees and a very large gut, and he's having the time of his life. He'd survived, and they hadn't. Why? He's back to asking his old questions again. Why?

Time seems to slow as Sybil places the cake in front of Sam, and Vimes feels like he's drowning, though he tries to hide it. This is not a good time.

He hadn't gone outside yet, that's why. Sybil had scheduled the party for early in the morning, so he had barely woken up before he'd had to help set up. His eyes dart around the room, and, yes, Nobby, Colon, Willikins had all worn the lilac today, yet somehow he hadn't noticed, too caught up in everything.

His gaze finally lands on Vetinari, who gazes back with piercing eyes and nods. "Sergeant-at-arms," Vetinari says.

Vimes breathes. The world starts moving again.

"—to you!" the party finishes.

Sybil walks to Vimes and grabs his waist, as Detritus helps Sam blow out the candle, and Angua has to catch the cake before it hits the floor.

"About the cake," Sybil says nervously, "I'm sorry, I meant to ask you, but didn't get the chance. Nevertheless, I thought it was appropriate. Do you think so?"

Vimes takes Sybil's hand and squeezes. "It's good, Sybil. It fits, I think. "

Working yourself into a knot over something that happened thirty-one years ago isn't good for you, Vimes knows. And so, Sybil's hand in his, Watch by his side, he tries to do what he tries to do every year: let go. He's been getting a little better at it these days. This May Twenty-Fifth might be the best one yet. At least, this year, he's not chasing after a mass murderer.

The door to the room bursts open, and Vimes vaguely recognizes the intruder as one of the new Lance-Constables. "Captain Carrot! Commander Vimes!"

And then again…

"There's been a murder!"

After receiving the details, Carrot sprints out of the house. Vimes follows him, but, first, stops by Detritus, who salutes.   

"Sah!"

"Sergeant Detritus, switch stripes with me for the day, would you?" Vimes grabs them before Detritus can react. "There's a good man, er, troll."

"Wha?"

With a satisfied smirk, Vimes affixes the stripes on his sleeve as he runs. It's not Sergeant-at-arms, but it'll do.       


End file.
